


Clouds

by sherlocked11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked11/pseuds/sherlocked11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A walk through London turns into fish and chips and fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this was a joint effort with my best friend theresidentdork!

John was halfway up the stairs to his Baker Street flat, plastic bag in hand, when he heard the distressingly familiar sound of a clip of bullets being emptied into a wall immediately followed by a loud baritone declaration of boredom.

He’d just come back from the store, and so far had been in a pretty good mood. It was a Saturday, and the sky was uncharacteristically blue for London. His pay from the surgery had been delivered yesterday, and the chip and pin machine had, for once, let him purchase his bread and tea with a minimum of trouble. Consequently, instead of immediately running up the rest of the way to the flat and demanding that Sherlock explain himself immediately, John merely sighed, pursed his lips, and stumped up the steps to his door.

The first thing that John noticed was the deerstalker. Or rather, its remains, pinned solidly to the wall by Sherlock’s pocketknife. Evidently it had been target practice.

The second thing that John noticed was Sherlock. The tall man was sprawled out on his back over the length of the coffee table, head hanging from one end and legs reaching from the other, books and magazines spilling onto the carpet from where he had dislodged them. His right arm was stretched out on the floor; a gun John didn’t recognized was hanging carelessly from his fingers.

John rolled his eyes as he stooped over and swiped the weapon from Sherlock’s limp grip. “What are you doing, Sherlock?” he asked, despite the fact that he obviously already knew the answer.

Craning his head at a rather ungraceful angle over his chest, Sherlock peered peevishly at his flatmate. “I’m bored, John,” he said flatly.

“Yeah I got that…” The doctor and ex-soldier released the clip from the grip of the gun, checked to see that it was really empty, then slid it into place again and stuck the gun into the back of his waistband. “But why are you shooting your cap?” He looked almost regretful as he regarded the sad scrap of material that used to be a deerstalker.

Sherlock let his head swing back over the edge of the table, eyes narrowed as he stared straight ahead. “It had it coming,” he rumbled, as if his displeasure with the article in question was reason enough to send it to hat heaven.

“What?” John asked, momentarily incredulous before he visibly mentally reminded himself of who he was addressing. “Ugh, never mind. Just never mind.” Seeming to realize he was still holding the bag of groceries, he turned and retreated into the kitchen, putting the bread away and folding his jacket over the chair before he set the kettle to boil and brought two mugs down from the cupboards.

Sherlock shifted on the coffee table, ignoring the jabbing corners of the books still trapped beneath him. “You really shouldn’t carry a gun around like that, John. Bad practice, you could blow a hole in your backside. We wouldn’t want that.”

Not bothering to turn, John replied, opening his new box of tea. “Clip’s empty, Sherlock.”

The consulting detective huffed and rolled ungracefully to his feet, only to flop down dramatically onto the leather couch, arms and legs starfished wildly so as to take up as much space as humanly possible. “You’re gonna scar yourself someday if you keep doing that.”

John emerged from the kitchen, mugs of tea in hand and mild puzzlement creased between his eyebrows. “Okay… You all right?”  
Sherlock shot John one of his patented ‘Don’t be so thick’ looks. “No. I’m BORED, John!”

“I gathered as much the first time.” Unfazed by the resulting glare, John handed one of the mugs down to his flatmate, who took it grudgingly. “Nothing on the site or from Lestrade, I take it.”

“A few, but they were all dull. A child could have solved them.” Sherlock sipped at his drink distractedly.

“I’m sure.” John settled into his chair across the room and opened the newspaper to read as he started in on his own tea. The room lapsed into silence as John flipped through the paper and Sherlock, having set his mug down after only a few mouthfuls, stared at the ceiling as if he could will it to burst into flames.

After a few minutes of this Sherlock exhaled sharply in annoyance and pressed a pillow into his face with a muffled “BORED”. John looked up, sighed softly through his nose, and put his paper aside.

“Would you like to go people-watching, maybe?”

Sherlock flipped the pillow down to the floor with an exasperated and almost resigned air. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Have you got anything better to do?” John asked back. Sherlock didn’t reply, and John stood up from his chair and headed towards the stairs to his room. “Get your coat on, I’m going to grab a jumper.”

Sherlock said nothing, but he had risen from the couch and donned his long coat by the time John came back down the stairs, pulling his striped black-and-white jumper on over his head. “You ready?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied neutrally.

John eyed Sherlock askance, but said only “Come on then.” Grabbing his keys, he lead the way out the door of the flat and down the stairs. “Where would you like to go?”  
“Scotland Yard?”

“I said people-watching, not interrogation. You’re not even on a case. Let’s go to the park, there’ll be lots of people there.” John swung the main door open. “Especially on a day like today.”

“Fine, if that will please you.” Sherlock’s tone remained neutral as they stepped out onto the sidewalk and started down the sidewalk.

“Um… Okay, yeah. We could grab that one bench I know you prefer, and you can rattle on about whatever you observe about whoever’s there. Keep you busy, a bit.” John smiled up unsurely at his friend.

Sherlock did not smile in return, but his expression relaxed from its stiff, studied indifference. “Yes. That sounds acceptable.”

John nodded, his own expression lifting. “Mm, good. Oh, I’m going to grab some chips up here, this shop’s not bad.”

Sherlock waited outside the small chipper shop as John ordered, staring at his shoes with his lips pressed together and his hands in his pockets. John emerged a minute later, paper cone full of chips in his hand, and they started on their way again.

“These are pretty good. You want some?” John offered, munching steadily at his snack.

“You know I don’t eat, John,” Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow.

“You forget to eat, you mean. Suit yourself then.”

“Technicality,” Sherlock retorted, amusement rising to his eyes. He plucked a chip from the pile and deftly popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. “Those are rather good.”

“I thought you weren’t hungry!” John accused, smiling. He nudged at Sherlock’s ribs with an elbow, as if to ward him off.

Sherlock sidestepped John’s attack and stole two more chips before increasing his pace, using his long legs to pull ahead of John and avoid any possible repercussions the doctor might have in mind for his pilfering.

“Get back here!” John called, ignoring a few odd looks from passersby as he hurried after Sherlock, a grin playing on his lips.

The consulting detective-turn-chip thief said nothing, but flashed a smile over his shoulder that clearly dared John to just try and catch him as he accelerated into a head-long run, his coat soaring behind him. John immediately started running after him, chips clenched tightly in his hand and legs pumping, a smile planted firmly on his face.

The chase lasted until they reached the middle of the park; Sherlock’s longer strides kept John a few meters behind him despite the shorter man’s valiant efforts. Just ahead was the bench Sherlock had established as his favorite, their destination. Sprinting the final stretch, Sherlock whirled and planted himself on the wood seat, nearly toppling over backwards in his haste, and smiled, smugly victorious, at the advancing figure. John, however did not slow down, or do anything to halt his momentum. If anything, he sped up, lowering his head and shoulders in a tackling position. Sherlock only had time for a look of confusion and an incomprehensible exclamation before the stocky man barreled into him, knocking them both clean over the bench and into the grass behind it.

Side by side, they both lay stunned for a minute before breaking into simultaneous laughter at the absurdity of the situation. “What was that for?” Sherlock demanded teasingly after the giggles had died down. “I won, you didn’t have to knock me over! You lost your chips, besides.”

“I’m a soldier. We win at all costs,” John shot back, grinning. The chips had indeed gone flying during the tackle, and now they lay scattered over to the side, food for the birds.  
“Of course, I should have known.” Sherlock’s eyebrows quirked playfully, and he reached over to John to brush some stray blades of grass off of his jumper. John met his gaze, and they looked at each other for a long moment, Sherlock’s icy blue-green eyes to John’s deep sea blue. John broke contact first, laying his head on the ground and staring up at the puffy clouds in the bright sky above.

Sherlock followed John’s gaze up to the sky, then looked down again to his face. “What are you looking at?”

“That bit of cloud, that one right there.” John pointed up at a puffy one right above their heads. “It looks like a…” He tilted his head. “Like a dragon. With Mycroft’s hair. It’s even got an umbrella there, you see?”

Laying his own head on the grass, Sherlock squinted up at the cloud. “Oh yes. How clever,” he intoned, clearly not understanding.

John propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Sherlock. “Yeah, you don’t see it, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head.

Leaning towards Sherlock, John explained, gesturing up at the different parts of the cloud as he spoke. “See there’s his body, his neck and head, the hair, that stretchy bit over here is his wings, and his tail curls under him next to that umbrella-shaped wisp.”

Sherlock followed John’s finger closely, and grin flitted over his face as he finally caught the form of John’s imagination. “I see it, John, you’re right.”

“Haha, there we go!” John crowed, and pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder encouragingly as he flopped back onto the grass, already searching the sky for more whimsical forms. Absently, he left his hand resting on Sherlock’s arm, an unconscious gesture of affection on his part. This did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, who, after a few seconds of uncertainty, returned the gesture by reaching his other hand over and placing it over John’s.

John tensed momentarily, and his face colored slightly, but he did not withdraw. Instead, he took a slightly shaky breath, and smiled ever so faintly. “You see any more shapes?”  
Sherlock glanced at John, then looked back up. “Hmmm… Oh god.” Sherlock blanched. “That one looks like a deerstalker.”

John giggled, and then laughed, and Sherlock laughed with him until they were both completely red-faced with amusement for the second time in ten minutes.

“Oh god, it does, it really does,” John managed, wiping tears away from his eyes with his free hand. “I think it’s haunting you.”

“That’s absurd!” Sherlock shot at him, giggles barely under control.

“Stalked by the deerstalker!”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “No such thing! Besides, even if it were, it might well be after you too!”

John shook his head knowingly. “Nah, it knows I like it better than you do.”

“Still can’t comprehend why.”

“It’s got a classic sort of flair to it. Very whodunnit. Suits you.”

“You’re impossible.”

John laughed at this, then looked over at Sherlock searchingly, as if contemplating the man. A few dozen seconds passed, then he said, “If there’s anyone here who’s impossible, I think it’d be you. You and that idiotically genius brain of yours.” He smiled.

Sherlock let go of John’s hand and leaned over. Hesitantly he reached over and, when John did not protest, ran his fingers lightly over the doctor’s short, sandy hair. “I can’t be idiotic and genius at the same time, John. It’s called a paradox.”

John flushed and averted his eyes at Sherlock’s touch, but his expression was not one of displeasure. After a few seconds, he looked back up into the other man’s eyes, and, encouraged by what he saw there, moved to place his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stretched his arm out to better support John, nervousness now almost evident in his own face.

“It’s not a paradox, it’s truth,” John said, continuing on their earlier thread. “Only an idiot wouldn’t know who the Prime Minister was, or that the Earth goes round the sun.” John’s smile was almost cheeky. “You don’t even remember how to make tea sometimes.”

Sherlock smiled back. “It’s not important. I only keep what’s important and relevant.”

“The Prime Minister isn’t important?”

“Of course not. Until his — or her, I really have no idea — identity matters for a case, it’s not relevant.”

“You of all people would say that,” John said with a chuckle. He shifted closer to Sherlock, turning to settle more securely into his shoulder and placing a hand on the ground between them.

Sherlock drew his arm tighter around John. “Give me a case in which common gossip is relevant and I shall catalogue it.”

John was starting to doze under the warm touch of the sun and the even warmer embrace of his genius consulting detective flatmate. “Hmmm, I’ll get right on that.”

Sensing John’s sleepiness, and unwilling to disturb him, he dropped his voice to a murmur. “Yes, you get right on that… My dear Watson.”

John hummed into Sherlock’s coat. “My dear Watson?”

“Not good?”

John’s arm draped itself over Sherlock’s narrow chest. “No, no, it’s fine…”

“It’s all fine.”


End file.
